


on me let Death wreck all his rage

by oheart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dark Will Graham, Jealous Will Graham, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), or holding a love confession hostage until you get what you want first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oheart/pseuds/oheart
Summary: Talking in metaphors helps talking about feelings, without talking about feelings. Until it doesn't.Or: Hannibal and Will discuss literature, god, the devil and love.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 154





	on me let Death wreck all his rage

**Author's Note:**

> the result of reading paradise lost and stopping to discuss it with gigi, my favorite expert.

“Have you done this before," Hannibal asks unnecessarily, as the blade slides across Will’s skin. It’s sharp and cold and Will feels himself relax further into his chair even as the skin on his arms break into goosebumps. 

“No,” Will offers simply, lips barely moving, the one syllable coming out as a lazy hum. Whether he’s had his beard shaved by someone else in the old-fashioned way before feels inconsequential – nothing about Hannibal gently tipping his head back and holding a blade to his neck feels like something he could have ever experienced before. 

A bit of the shaving foam spreads to Will’s bottom lip. Hannibal moves his hand and the blunt broad side of the straight razor brushes across it to wipe it away. It can’t have lasted more than a second, but it’s firm enough to feel like an intentional caress if Will wishes it to. He suppresses the urge to retrace the touch with his tongue. 

With his eyes closed, Will’s brain has no choice but to register every touch, every deliberate stroke and accidental brush (the warm hand at the base of his throat, the fingers on the edge of his jaw, gently turning his neck in whatever direction they please, the unexpected brush of Hannibal’s legs against Will’s own –) and to imagine what he cannot see. Hannibal continues his work in silence, offering Will nothing to gauge whether the answer pleases him or not, or if each scrape of the blade affects him as much as it’s affecting Will. 

He imagines it does, though. Even without sight, or perhaps because of it, he can clearly see the undivided focus Hannibal regards him with. The satisfaction with which he pries Will open with just a look or a few words, cataloging every reaction for later, seems to translate just as well to the tip of his fingers. It often feels like a test, a divine trial; one Will knows he cannot fail because, to Hannibal, there are no wrong answers when it comes to Will, only new layers to explore. 

It’s a heady thing, being loved like that. Knowing that all that terrifying attention and craving are his, and his alone, for the taking and all he has to give in return is every dark thing that lurks inside of him. And knowing that he holds the power to willingly give it up or to deny it all together. 

His mind travels briefly back to the memory of Alana lying on the pavement, blinking against the unforgiving rain, eyes drowned in fear; of the empty husk that Jack became towards the end, hovering on Will’s doorsteps, begging for help from a man who had betrayed his trust again and again; of the great red dragon, reduced to a carcass in a pool of his own blood; of Bedelia’s face frozen in a horrified daze as she stared at the space where her leg used to be. All the people who had the misfortune of catching glimpses of Hannibal... and flinched at what they saw. 

The thought comforts and thrills him in a way Will knows should repulse him. Instead, he feels his lips threatening to betray his own delight and he works to suppress the smile. He doesn’t want Hannibal’s eyes catching the trail of that thought just yet. 

“I’ve been reading a lot lately,” Will offers abruptly. Partly to disguise his own train of thought, but mainly because presenting Hannibal with whatever pops up in his brain and seeing where the doctor takes it has become second nature to him. The roundabout irony doesn’t escape him. 

“Considering the academic nature of your profession and your own tendency to introspection, you must’ve always had the habit,” it’s said with neutral pensiveness. Hannibal is aware there’s a lure in the water, but he’s not yet interested enough to bite. 

“Sure, I read articles and textbooks a lot, but I can’t remember the last time I read this much just for the pleasure of it,” Will pauses for a moment, trying to recall, “not since high school, I think.” 

“You have more time in your hands now.” Hannibal does not pause. The razor delicately traces the curve of Will’s jaw as he continues: “Divesting yourself of the constraints of social expectations and morality has left you with a newfound appetite for pleasure and indulgence. Is it so strange that you would choose to spend your days feeding that hunger?” 

The bluntness of the question takes Will by surprise and he’s pleased to remember he is not the only one who sets traps in these hunting grounds. 

“This author I’m reading” he continues, clearing his throat and deliberately sidestepping Hannibal’s attempt, “has an interesting take on the Christian myth of mankind’s creation and the original sin. Surprisingly blasphemous.” 

“The idea of the soul’s corruption as an inexorable condition of life and free will has always piqued men’s interest. The similarities between Lucifer’s fall from grace and mankind’s own fall from the garden of Eden are specially intriguing.” 

“Yes, sure, that too,” Will allows, not at all surprised but still amused that Hannibal would, of course, assume Will wanted to discuss the parallels between man and the devil, “but I was thinking about a particular passage...” That thread gets lost abruptly, when Hannibal uses a thumb to push Will’s head back further. 

It’s just the one finger firmly pressing against the soft skin under Will’s chin and the weight of Hannibal’s hand barely touches his throat, but when Will swallows reflexively, he can feel his trachea ache a little as it works against the palm of Hannibal’s hand. 

“Yes?” Hannibal prompts him to continue as the silence stretches out for a beat too long. Dangerously cordial, as always. 

“This God is all-seeing, all-knowing,” paradoxically, the words seem to tumble out of Will’s mouth easier now, with the strain, “he knows mankind will be tempted and he knows they will fall. He’s already decided to forgive the deed before it happens, but only if one of Heaven’s creations accepts the burden of punishment in man’s place. When he asks, Jesus jumps at the opportunity to sacrifice himself,” Will is caught between bewilderment and derision again as he remembers the passage, “he’s so _eager_.” 

“And that interests you.” 

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just not sure I understand his motivations.” 

“Or maybe you understand them all too well.” 

The blade slides against his Adam’s apple, forcing Will to stop before he can challenge that reasoning. Instead, he recollects his thoughts and continues: “He’s the embodiment of sacrifice, I know, but no one is that selfless, not even in devotion.” He waits to see if Hannibal has any thoughts to share on that. When he doesn’t, Will presses on, “I guess I just can’t understand being asked to sacrifice so much for mankind and not even questioning any of it.” 

“Perhaps it was never about mankind at all. Narcissism is a fairly common trait among gods and divine beings. ‘Well thou knowest how dear to me are all my works; nor Man the least, that for him I spare thee from my bosom’... Jesus is often depicted as God’s favored son, and yet he must accept that God is willing to put him through torture and isolation for the sake of his other creations.” 

“You think Jesus’ motivation was jealousy?” Will scoffs, as if the notion is completely new to him. 

“Don’t you?” The knowing smile is evident in Hannibal’s voice, “in offering himself to carry the burden of Man’s mistakes, he highlights humanity’s flaws and his own superiority in God’s eyes.” 

“He sacrifices the life he knew and accepts an uncertain fate to prove that he’s greater than the rest of God’s creations,” Will offers, falling automatically into their back-and-forth routine. 

“To prove that his love is greater and that, in turn, he’s deserving of greater love, yes. For God, he embraces death and comes out on the other side transformed, closer to God than he ever was when he walked the earth as a mortal man.” 

_No greater love hath man, than to lay down his life for a friend_ , Hannibal said to him on the night they killed together. Love – or, at least this kind of awful, all-consuming love he feels for Hannibal – requires sacrifice. And there is, of course, no greater sacrifice than to offer up one’s life. He hadn’t fully understood what the words meant that night. But, in hindsight, Will can see it with painful clarity: Hannibal was asking him to sacrifice his former life, his soul, so that what he envisioned as Will’s true self could emerge, so they could be... more alike. 

And Will embraced that death and transformation. For him. 

He thinks again of the former friends and people who crossed Hannibal’s path. Bedelia, Alana, Jack, even Dolarhyde. All of them claimed at some point to understand Hannibal, to know him better than Will could. They had all suffered Hannibal’s influence, been transformed by him in some way; not too different from Will. _How many have there been? Like me?_ Will asked Hannibal once, when the brunt of what he thought was the truth set the heaviest on his shoulders: that he was merely the newest acquisition on an endless list of peculiar toys. 

Oh, how he had craved for the comfort of knowing he was special to Hannibal then. Admitting it to himself now should be mortifying, if only Hannibal’s need for Will’s attention wasn’t also so obvious in retrospect. 

“And do you think his sacrifice pleased his god?” 

“Gods are, by nature, quite responsive to sacrifice,” Hannibal replies with the usual solemnity, but Will can sense the spark of humor underneath it. He would go as far as to say Hannibal is _charmed_ , “they can, of course, be very capricious as well and rarely remain satisfied for long.” 

Will feels his good mood begin to sour. He holds his breath and asks: “So, you’re saying he should schedule more bloodbath if he wants to keep his god interested?”

Hannibal abandons the pretense of shaving all together. The razor disappears somewhere and Will opens his eyes when he feels Hannibal’s hands cradle his face. It is obvious they aren’t discussing myths and literature anymore. 

“You either underestimate the sincerity of my love for you, or the inexorable pull you have on me regardless,” Hannibal accuses, the mirth slowly evaporating from his eyes. 

All too soon, the conversation feels too real, less like expertly navigating each other’s minefields under the protection of metaphors and more like plunging head first into the dark chaos of the unknown. Will is suddenly very aware of how long he’s been sitting in that same position and moves to get up, to pull away. 

Hannibal holds him in place, though, in an uncharacteristically unsubtle move. 

“All I ever wanted was for you to embrace your true self. To watch you break free from the struggle against your own nature. Beyond that, I require nothing else from you, Will,” Hannibal pauses and his eyes flee downwards briefly as he chooses his next words carefully. The show of insecurity, even if brief, is startling, and Will knows his mannerisms well enough by now to know it’s not fabricated. 

“I don’t regret letting you see me,” Hannibal continues with renewed confidence, “or letting you know how I feel about you, nor do I resent you for not feeling the same way. I don’t expect reciprocity, but I do expect you to respect how I feel.” 

It’s too much, too earnest. Definitely not what Will had in mind when he agreed to sit down for Hannibal with a sharp blade between them. Hannibal’s hands have gone lax on the sides of his face, more like a gentle support than restraint, but Will still cannot make himself move. He grips the arms of his chair instead. 

“You don’t understand,” Will lets out through gritted teeth. The words alone feel like a raw admission – Hannibal always understands him, and the fact that he fails to do it in this of all things, is only the tip of the ugly untamed betrayal Will feels lurking underneath. 

“Show me, and I’ll understand,” it’s not an empty promise; Hannibal does not offer pretty words for the sake of comfort alone. 

_How many have there been? Like me? How many will come,_ after _me?_

“Bluebeard’s last wife,” Will blurts out, accidentally too honest in his clumsy attempt to pull away from his own thoughts, “is only the _last_ wife because she kills him. We’re both still very much alive. Doesn’t that worry you?” 

Hannibal’s expression turns unnaturally blank, a rare sight that Will knows only happens when he’s truly and completely surprised and unsure of how to proceed. 

It gives Will time to recollect and he’s about to make his excuses and flee the room, when Hannibal’s expression changes and he blinks down at Will with something like newfound clarity in his eyes. 

“You don’t doubt that I love you, or how much I love you,” he says conversationally, as if he isn’t about to deliver something devastating, “you’re afraid of my capacity for permanence. Or, more accurately, what you perceive as my lack of it.” 

“You are known for being... capricious,” Will shoots back, wounded pride making him belligerent. 

Hannibal doesn’t fall for it, though. 

“You are not my sacrificial lamb, Will. I assure you, if the metaphor applied to you and me, it would be me, the faithful follower, and you, the mercurial god.” 

All at once, Will realizes how wrong he was in casting himself as the blind worshipper to Hannibal’s god. Or as the oblivious wife who only sees Bluebeard’s truth once it’s too late. But neither is Hannibal fit for the role. Neither of them is blind or oblivious or particularly noble in their motivations. None of those metaphors could ever cover it. They are both the capricious god and the murderous nightmare that normal, good people have to run away from. 

For all the things Will has given up for Hannibal, he has hoarded this one close to his chest ever since Bedelia dragged those words out into the light and Will realized that the hungry, unspeakable thing he craved was something Hannibal could want, too. Suddenly, Will feels foolish for avoiding that truth for as long as he has. And then he feels powerful. It’s a heady thing, loving like that. 

There are a lot of reassurances he can ask of Hannibal, before taking the next step and making himself irreversibly vulnerable. He could ask him to promise never to grow tired of him. He could demand him to swear to never look at or touch or eat or torment or love anyone who isn’t Will, ever, or a number of other absurd desires that pace relentlessly around Will’s mind sometimes. 

Instead, he chooses to get back at Hannibal by inflicting the same wound. 

_You love me_ , Will thinks, morbidly satisfied, as he pulls Hannibal down until he drops to his knees on the ground before him and his face is level with Will’s, _I love you back. Even Steven._

He doesn’t say the words out loud. He doesn’t need to – Hannibal hears it all too clearly, when Will brings their mouths dangerously close, stops and waits for his monster to bite the lure first.

**Author's Note:**

> me: why is jesus so eager to be sacrificed. who hurt this man.
> 
> gigi: what if it's narcissism, not unlike satan?
> 
> me: holy shit. god damn. holy fuck.
> 
>   
> title from john milton's paradise lost, book i, 240-243:
> 
> "[...] on me let Death wreck all his rage;  
> Under his gloomy power I shall not long  
> Lie vanquish't; thou hast giv'n me to possess  
> Life in my self for ever, by thee I live[.]"
> 
> kudos/comments are loved 🖤
> 
> reigninhell on tumblr


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